If only anyone knew what he truly is like.
Papa’s guests stare up at me, each darker and slipperier-looking than the last. I trust none of them.Their honeyed smiles are normal enough, but their sharp eyes travel over my body without an ounceof shame.
They introduce themselves to me one by one, offering hands to shake and names I don’t bother tryingto remember.
I study their accents with detachment. Colombian, I think. Probably the higher-ups from one of myfather’s cocaine suppliers down there.
In other words, it’s business as usual in the Moreno household.
“Esme is a pianist,” Papa announces. He pushes me towards the grand piano over by the curtainedwindows. “Play something for us, cariña.”
I nod, smile still riveted to my face, and move towards the pi
